


Get Thee Behind Me, Foul Fiend

by D20Owlbear, JCutter



Series: 11 Years Isn't Enough to be in Love [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blasphemy, Blasphemy kink, Crowley tempts Aziraphale, Does not end happily, M/M, Other, Very angst, a lot of it, and painfully in love, down the line, ends canonically, it is not a capital T Temptation, morning of the antichrist, night in the bookshop, rated E for body worship, there will be a fixit fic, they pretend like this won’t change anything, they’re both idiots, very softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCutter/pseuds/JCutter
Summary: The morning the antichrist is delivered, Crowley seeks out Aziraphale for quite a lot of alcohol and to discuss what was going to happen, now that the world was on schedule to end. Aziraphale, of course, takes some convincing, and then we find them six hours into a drinking binge in the bookshop in Soho, London."Get thee behind me, foul fiend!"“Very well,” Crowley’s voice was dark as chocolate and rich as the wine Aziraphale had offered only moments ago, “If you insist.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 11 Years Isn't Enough to be in Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544836
Comments: 39
Kudos: 158
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	Get Thee Behind Me, Foul Fiend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JCutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCutter/gifts).

> Thank you very much to cassie-oh and sosobriquet for betaing! It's so much better for your hard work.
> 
> JCutter will be the next author in the series to fix this mess with "After You", "Get Thee Behind Me, Foul Fiend" is my work.
> 
> [Come find me on Tumblr here!](https://d20owlbear.tumblr.com/)

“I told you, Crowley. I’m not helping you. I’m not interested. This is purely social. I’m an angel. You’re a demon. We're hereditary enemies!" Aziraphale paused to unlock the bookshop and then held the door for Crowley.

"Get thee behind me, foul fiend!" he quipped, with a mischievous smile that soon faltered at the look on Crowley's face. Crowley had only looked at him like that once before that he knew of, at least when they weren't drunk to high heavens. Or, at least, only once that Aziraphale had seen. 

He opened his mouth to say “_after you,_” but the words died on his tongue when Crowley reached out carefully, every muscle tensed and poised, a coiled snake readying itself to strike, until his hand met the door near Aziraphale’s head.

“Very well,” Crowley’s voice was dark as chocolate and rich as the wine Aziraphale had offered only moments ago, “If you insist.” 

Crowley leaned in so close their noses nearly touched and Aziraphale froze entirely. Now, for an angel the phrase "froze entirely" means something entirely different than it might for a human—not only did he stop consciously moving, but his heart stopped beating, and his lungs ceased to draw in air. Despite this, he couldn’t keep his eyes from flickering down to stare at the demon’s lips.

A long moment passed. 

“Well? I can’t very well get behind thee if you don’t… _ move _ .” Crowley licked his lips and Aziraphale was nearly undone by a sudden _want_. A tsunami of desire crashed over him, forcibly eroding the cliffs of abstention at the very core of him, all in one fell swoop. He gripped the door tightly, paying no mind to the fingerprints dented into the metal handle, to keep himself from buckling at the knees from the sheer weight of tension pressing down upon them. When he swallowed, it sounded obscene in his own ears, louder even than the sudden din of rushing blood. His heart had started up again and was running away with the rest of him, far too fast for his better judgment to justifiably keep pace with. So surely, it couldn’t be his fault that no words escaped as he ducked under Crowley's arm and into the dark of the shop, feeling all the while like there were thousands of eyes on him, and phantom touches crawling up his spine. 

S_urely _it wasn’t his fault that he liked that.

Crowley chuckled to himself and closed the door behind him, his own fingers fitting neatly into the grooves left by Aziraphale’s hand. If he lingered for a moment too long, pretending it had been a hold meant for him, well, that was no one’s business but his own. 

Crowley clicked the lock on the door on his way past to make sure no one might try to ignore the “Closed” sign in the window sitting proudly on display. He removed his jacket in a single fluid motion and hung them from the hooks near the doorway—the kind that was meant for keys and _certainly not_ for jackets, despite holding neither previously. He wasn't quite sure how long the key-less hooks had been there, or if they'd existed at all before this moment. He didn't think on it any more than that, opting to slink around the bookshop instead, keeping carefully to the edges.

“Aziraphale?” He called out from behind a bookcase, faux casually. He half-wondered if it might be fun to sneak up on the angel in the same snake-form he’d used to introduce himself on the walls of Eden, but he quickly pushed that idea away. There were reasons he hadn’t turned into a snake much or at least reasons he hadn't done so in the last few millennia. 

“H– here, my dear boy!” The answering call stuttered from the back room and Crowley _grinned_. Very good. He continued along the sides of the room adopting a saunter decidedly more predatory than his norm and stepped close to the walls and shelving so nothing would creak or make noise as he picked his way to the back room. 

When he reached the doorway, he poked his head around so he could see Aziraphale completely engrossed in uncorking a bottle of wine. His grin widened. Crowley took a step forward before a flash of hesitation attempted to take root in his mind, but he ruthlessly shoved it away. 

The world was going to end, he told himself. They had 11 years. 132 months. 4017 and three-quarters days. That was all. Practically a blink, certainly it was _nothing _on six millennia. Best make the most of it, after all. 

And _get thee behind me, foul fiend_? That was as close to a come-on as Crowley had ever heard from Aziraphale's mouth. And it was ... rather more blatant than Crowley had ever hoped to hear

Crowley slithered up behind Aziraphale and pressed himself close along the angel's back and gripped at his hips, pulling them flush together. He held his breath and bit back a moan at the warmth he could feel from Aziraphale even through the plentiful layers of clothes between them. Aziraphale stood stock-still, frozen by shock while Crowley gathered himself and leaned in. He flicked his thin, forked tongue across the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale trembled at the touch.

“Behind you, holy warrior,” Crowley hissed, sibilant even where there was no need nor place for it. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath.

“You–” Crowley cut him off with another flick of his tongue, just beneath the back of Aziraphale’s collar, tied up tight with a bow in the front.

“Foul fiend?” Crowley repeated the epithet, his voice rumbling in his chest, making Aziraphale shiver as he felt it through his shoulders, losing any and all voice in his throat. “I’m already behind you. What else would you like?” Aziraphale sucked in another sharp breath, trying to gather his scattered words, but found himself unable to make his tongue anything but leaden. 

“Do you want me to touch you, Angel?” Crowley murmured against his jaw, leaning in to press his lips to flesh. He laid soft, teasing kisses along the pillar of Aziraphale’s neck, barely a whisper of a touch before he moved on. 

Aziraphale offered no answer, how could he? This, these gentle touches, the reverent brush of skin against skin, it was everything he’d ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for. Everything he’d ever dreamt of. Except that this was real and so, so much better.

“Do you want me to take you, Angel?” Crowley didn’t bother waiting for a reply. He clutched Aziraphale’s hips tightly and pulled him back even further to grind his hips against the softness of his angel’s backside. There was no doubt that Crowley wanted this, there couldn’t be with the way his tight pants had filled out. He wanted to see Aziraphale come apart at the seams, but, more than that; he wanted to be the one to do it.

Aziraphale trembled in Crowley’s grasp and turned his head just as Crowley leaned in to entice him with kisses along his jawline. This time it was Crowley’s gasp that filled the heated silence as their lips met, breaking the kiss for only a moment before he dove back down to reclaim them. His hands slid forward, across Aziraphale's hips and further, drawn towards each other until they brushed over the tent in his trousers. Crowley's lips curled into a grin against Aziraphale’s and the light pressure increased ever so slightly, enough to tease, to frustrate and tempt without any hope of respite. 

Crowley hummed again, deep in his chest—the sound reverberating against Aziraphale’s shoulders and up to where their lips met. Aziraphale bumped up against the counter and leaned into it, searching for stability. The kiss left Aziraphale light-headed and dizzy. Crowley’s hands on his hips felt like firebrands, leaving him unable to think of anything else, not even able to note the way the demon tasted and wonder if he’d gotten it right in his imaginings.

Crowley’s hands were still there, still blazing, and unthinkingly, Aziraphale's hips jerked He moaned at the rough press of wooden cabinets and agile fingers against him before regaining control of himself. No– _no_, he might have been in love with a demon for some time now, but he was still a _ good angel_, he shouldn't, no, he _couldn' _t keep going on… like… this…

Any thought Aziraphale might have had past that point evaporated when Crowley pulled back from their kiss with a lewd, wet noise and began to make quick work of peppering rough kisses along his neck, sucking and biting his pale skin until it bloomed golden beneath his mouth. He’d have bruises there, Aziraphale thought faintly to himself, unable to scrape together the coherency to realize that he’d ensured it with that belief.

“Cr– Crowley!” He panted, pulling away and to the side, slipping out of Crowley’s arms to steady himself with locked arms on the kitchen table. His breathing was ragged and he just knew he looked halfway to debauched already, despite nothing more than his bowtie being somewhat askew. Of course, the hickies and incredibly obvious erection were probably what did it, he thought half-hysterically.

“Angel,” Crowley replied in kind, sounding out of breath himself, though far steadier than Aziraphale could manage. If he had looked closely, Aziraphale would have seen that Crowley’s hands shook—with the effort of keeping himself back, or from the lust and desire clouding the room and his senses, neither would be able to tell. But he was too wrapped up in his own inner turmoil to notice

“Crowley, we can’t–”

“Says who?” Crowley stepped forward, quite good at looming, his demon. This demon. Of _course_ that was what he meant.

“Says–!”.

“Says you, Angel?” Crowley cut Aziraphale off again even as he took another step, now nearly across the meager space Aziraphale had put between them. One more step and he’d be pressed up against Aziraphale again—one single, solitary step more and his hands would be free to wander. And yet… 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

It fizzled through Aziraphale like sweet champagne. This wasn’t a step Crowley would take, it wasn't a step he _could _take. But, Aziraphale? Aziraphale could certainly take that step, he need only be tempted to it.

“Because I don’t think you do. We’ve got eleven years, Aziraphale, eleven short, tiny, years. We’ll drink later tonight because that’s what we came here to do, and we’re piss at dealing with shite like this, but right now? Right now, Angel, I think you need more than that.” Crowley raised his hand, upturned and cupped as if offering up an apple, shining and lusciously red. This time, the hand of the tempter is empty, but promises so much more than mere knowledge 

Crowley was waiting. Waiting for anything and everything Aziraphale might give him. Dreaming was never an ability demons were meant to possess, nor yearning, but here Crowley was, filled with hope beyond measure. Pleading with every frayed fiber of his being that he was not making the worst mistake of his long life by submitting to the desperate longing he'd felt since the very last day of Eden If he only had 11 years left, he didn’t want them to be bereft of Aziraphale, even if he couldn’t have anything more than the comfortably distant companionship they’d fallen into over the last century.

“I think,” he began sotto voce, but still his soft voice carried easily in the charged silence between them, “That you ought to let me take care of you. Just tonight, if you like.” Crowley’s smooth voice stuttered, the weight of what he was asking bringing him to his metaphorical knees. It felt like he was asking for everything, like he was asking for the world handed over and wrapped up in twine as he raised his hopeful hands as if he might receive permission like a physical thing.

“Just let go for once, just tonight, and tomorrow in the light of day, we can go back to everything we’ve always been. Hereditary enemies, partners, coworkers, whatever you like. But tonight, let me take care of you.” Crowley’s voice rose and quickened with each passing word, snowballing down steep hills and accumulating more and more desperation as he went until his voice was a begging petition and he a poor supplicant, beseeching with all he had in him for some small mercy such as this.

Before he could second guess the decision, Aziraphale stepped forward and placed his trembling hand in Crowley’s own. Crowley raised it to his lips, until they brushed delicately over Aziraphale's knuckles as he spoke, "Angel, let me set you free."

The angel looked like a frightened rabbit, like a small bird emboldened by its first flight, and Crowley had never felt fonder. A noise far gentler than he thought himself capable of escaped Crowley when he took Aziraphale by the arm and reeled him in. Closer and closer, until they were once more flush against one another. 

It was then that the demon leaned down and took Aziraphale’s lips into another kiss, skillfully drawing the angel out of his worries and into the present. Though the kiss began almost chaste, the simple press of lips to lips, it rapidly grew in passion. Heat built between them and soon they were swallowing back quiet moans and gasps for breath. Hands fumbled against hands, scraped over clothing, pressed into stuttering hips. 

“Bedroom?” Crowley pleaded against Aziraphale’s mouth. He heard a faint _snap, _ as if from far away, and, without bothering to check where they were because he already _knew_, could feel it, Crowley backed Aziraphale up against the bed. The angel’s knees buckled and he fell into a seated position, his legs splayed and his hands bracing himself against the plush bed that, until that very moment, had been completely covered by books.

Crowley fell to his knees. He touched Aziraphale’s thighs, pressing down and sliding his hands up, high, higher than he’d ever dared imagine. He looked up at the angel haloed by soft, messy curls and breathed in the musky smell of arousal mingling with old books and ink. These gentle touches, this reverent brush of skin against skin, was everything he’d ever wanted but had been too afraid to ask for. Everything he’d ever dreamt of. Except that this was real and so, so much better.

“Angel,” he breathed, veneration in every movement, prayer shot through every syllable. “Angel, let me take care of you,” Crowley pleaded. He didn't care anymore that he might sound desperate or that his voice might reveal his _wanting_, because this was for him, too. This was, _ Aziraphale, let me set _us _free. _ Free from worries, free from expectations, free from anything outside the boundaries of the two of them. 

He tried to forget that they would never truly know such liberty, not if they were to go back to the way things had been by the time the sun rose once more in the eastern sky. They’d never mingle their souls, never bare their God-given forms to each other to merge and meld, but they _could _share their physical bodies, in the way that humans did. They _could _ Know each other, just for tonight. And they _would_.

“Yes.” Aziraphale breathed, eyes wide with desire. His arms trembled with the effort of holding himself up so he could _see _ Crowley. So he could see the Love in his demon’s eyes, the Love that Heaven had told him was burnt out of each and every demon as they Fell. Love that shone so very brightly for Aziraphale that he almost had to close his eyes, trying not to wince against it. It felt like seeing the face of God again, it was so pure and bright and sought only his love and happiness in return. It felt like the world was as it was meant to be. It was Good. 

“Yes.” the angel’s repetition was a prayer of his own, and the subversion of his role prickled at his skin painfully. Crowley’s form, which had been stunned and still, suddenly burst into motion. Love overflowed from him and magnified as it rushed through Aziraphale, who had been created first and foremost to bask in this sort of love and amplify it. To sing praises and project them through the Heavens and the firmaments so loudly the foundations shook with the force of it. 

He had been built for this, Before, and he had been made for taking hold of a sword. And so, that is what he did. Their bones shook as the very air resonated between them. Crowley breathed in deeply, trying desperately to carve this moment onto his very soul so that it might never be forgotten. He trembled as Aziraphale gently reached forward to remove his sunglasses. When Aziraphale turned and set them on the nightstand, he found himself staring at his own hands, suddenly unable to look at tear-bright, molten gold eyes.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, his voice whisper-thin, cracked by Hellfire and desire and so, so many years or wanting exactly what was now before him.

“Oh, my dear boy.” Aziraphale whispered back, leaning forward to place a kiss at Crowley’s brow. He marked him with searing, holy Love, knowing all the while that they could never be the same after this. He knew it in the same way he knew that this, too, was a prayer—a blessing, and a benediction. Aziraphale's skin flushed, even underneath his clothing, as if burned. And perhaps that was alright in the end. 

Eleven years, after all, is hardly enough time to be in love. 

Crowley surged up on his knees and grasped the back of Aziraphale’s neck, drawing him down into another heated kiss. Into it he poured all his devotion, expressing all the things neither of them could say aloud, that neither of them was ready to acknowledge with words, even as he tangled his fingers into disarrayed curls. A moan dripped from Aziraphale’s lips like honeyed wine and Crowley lapped it up, drinking in the sounds his angel made, pleased at the taste and forever wanting more.

His hands fell to the bowtie at Aziraphale’s neck. Deft fingers untied the garish, tartan thing and slowly, carefully, drew it from its place at Aziraphale’s collar as if unwrapping an especially beautiful present. Crowley laid the tie gently aside and started in on the buttons. He disengaged from the kiss, drawing a bereft noise from Aziraphale as he followed the path of his fingers along the angel’s jawline and down his throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses to heated skin as he went. He rewarded each loosed button with a kiss until he reached Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The velveteen material was soft under his fingers, familiar and comfortable, fabric smooth as butter and the buttons came undone there just a bit faster than on Aziraphale’s shirt. 

Crowley wanted to take his time, worship at this altar he was so lucky to kneel before. Crowley had been created, in the Beginning, to worship. Crowley was made to exalt in the holiness he found here, to show his utter adoration to _this _divinity and he had been forged to sing praises and amplify them through the Heavens and the firmaments so loudly that they shook. And so he did.

“Aziraphale,” He breathed, a song he could no longer sing tugging at the edges of his words, lifting the vowels toward impossible melodies, the consonants falling into rhythms lost to him.

“Aziraphale,” He extolled, voice worshipful and awed. Kneeling at his angel’s feet, he felt closer to the divine than he had ever been Before. His fingers sought out well-worn buttons once again and his lips resumed their praise of Aziraphale’s perfect form with devout kisses over the thin cotton of his undershirt. 

“Aziraphale,” He whispered, pious, the petitioner begging for sweet benediction at the feet of his beloved, immaculate godhead. Aziraphale’s shirt and waistcoat hung loose around his shoulders and it only took a glance at his angel's face for Crowley to get caught in the warmth of that gaze. Lost in Aziraphale’s eyes, he was helpless to do anything but rise up in adulation to meet sweet lips with his own. He sang his praises directly into them, moaning a remembered and rediscovered rapture as they kissed. Aziraphale had always been an epicure and a connoisseur, had forever cultivated a refined taste, and Crowley’s moaned devotion was as honeyed mana to a starving man in the desert. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured through the ardent caress, a gentle answer to his demon’s prayers—the only answer he’d ever gotten and all the more precious for it. In return Crowley kissed him again, soft and slow and with all homage paid tribute to Aziraphale, Crowley divested the angel of his loose clothing, and laid them carefully to the side, along with the tartan bow tie. 

Not daring to say anything but Aziraphale’s name, lest he break the spell over the both of them, Crowley resumed kissing along the column of Aziraphale’s neck, sucking further marks into his skin and down along his collar. Little sparks of pain and pleasure bloomed at the edges of the halos Crowley etched into his skin with a mouth that almost felt holy for the love dripping unspoken from it. His fingers slipped under the edge of Aziraphale undershirt, bone-sharp but gentle against soft skin. He hooked them in the hem and parted from Aziraphale’s skin just long enough to pull it up over his head. His clothing removed, Aziraphale falls back onto his elbows, trembling and overwrought, but still intent on watching as Crowley worshipped blasphemously at his feet. 

Crowley’s hands traced geometric patterns, mathematically perfect, across Aziraphale’s skin. He raised gooseflesh with every touch of his fingertips, every atom of him connecting with his golden idol as he composed his muqarnas across every arch and bow of Aziraphale’s body. Aziraphale gasped and writhed in turn, sensation and desire heightened with every pattern repeated, every inch of bare flesh covered in holy arrangements written in a profane hand. Crowley’s fingers stopped at the hem of Aziraphale’s trousers, pausing for only a moment before pulling at the button and opening them like a gift from on high. Aziraphale moaned in something like relief, so caught up in everything else he hadn’t realized the pressure of unforgiving tweed pants had verged on painful. 

Crowley curled his fingers underneath the waistband of Aziraphale’s underwear and drew them down easily, the angel lifting his hips at the silent entreaty, until they pooled around his ankles. Crowley sat back on his heels, still fully clothed and straining against his own pants, but entirely uncaring of his comfort at the moment. He leaned down and untied Aziraphale’s shoes, as slow and solemn as he had ever been in the whole history of the Earth. Then, having removed the obstacles separating him from Aziraphale’s feet, Crowley pressed firm thumbs into the arch of one foot, rubbing gently for a moment before leaning down, until he was all but prostrating himself, to press a kiss to the top of the arch. He repeated the process on the other, listening to Aziraphale's very carefully measured breaths above him. His patience with the inconvenience of Aziraphale's remaining clothes finally met its end and he, at last, reached up to finish pulling off his angel's trousers and pants. He left the socks and suspenders wrapped around Aziraphale’s calves, tracing his fingers around the supple leather of them briefly where they bit gently into his angel’s skin, and then up along the inside of Aziraphale’s knees and thighs to reach the apex of them. 

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, catching his eyes. His breathing hitched at the intensity of sky-blue eyes turned a dark storm-grey, clouded by the desire to watch, to feel, to _experience _this with him. Aziraphale gave a short nod and it was all Crowley needed, the permission to please him, to free him from his thoughts, it was all he’d ever needed.

Crowley’s mouth watered, finally free to use however he wished, as he laid kisses like the best sort of plans across Aziraphale's belly and up his sides. He scraped his teeth over-sensitized skin, drawing soft gasps of pleasure from Aziraphale like water from a desert stone. The demon left no centimeter of flesh unloved, either by his wandering mouth or his searching hands. He rasped and squeezed at the Divinity he held in his palms, and sucked golden bruises into Aziraphale's skin. All across hips and over his chest and along his sides until there was a waterfall of pleasure flowing from the angel as he succumbed to Crowley's tender ministrations. 

Then, when he could no longer resist, his hungry lips wrapped around the head of Aziraphale’s cock. For a long moment that was all he could manage, the weight of it, and the way it shaped his mouth, was electric, intoxicating. Without thought, his forked tongue laved across the tip of it and wrapped around, the way only a tongue like his could. Slowly, so slowly, he bobbed his head. Every downward slide moving him just a little further, until eventually, _ finally_, Crowley had swallowed him down entirely. Aziraphale whined aloud, his head thrown back in sobbing ecstasy.

His throat worked around Aziraphale’s cock and, not for the first time in his life, Crowley was infinitely grateful he had neither a gag reflex, nor a need for oxygen. He could just sit here, choking himself on an angel’s hallowed sword, and drink down whatever he was given as his tongue coiled around, and flexed against the cock filling his mouth.

It took everything in Aziraphale—all the steadfastness of a pillar, all the fortitude of a holy soldier—to keep from bucking up into the tight, warm heat of Crowley’s mouth. He keened a sharp, desperate sound and forced himself to keep his hips against the bed. His hands clutched so tightly at the quilt that he might have worried over the audible rip, had he still retained the wherewithal and good sense to notice such a thing in the first place. 

Crowley’s hands moved up Aziraphale's thighs to curl his arms around generous hips and dig fingers into bite marks and bruises. All for the dull pleasure-pain of touching the still darkening bruises. All the while, he was working his throat into spasms around Aziraphale's cock, trying to pull him further down, to swallow him whole. Saliva ran slick from his mouth, dripping obscene and wet down his chin, as his tongue sinuously coiled and massaged over the shaft, effectively stroking along Aziraphale's entire length. Like this, he could manipulate the angel to ever higher reaches of pleasure without ever needing to move his head. 

It was the effort of only a few minutes between the sin of his tongue and his mouth and the devotion of his hands, to wrench a ringing moan from the angel. Aziraphale collapsed, falling back against the bed, as he spilled himself, white-hot and burning, into Crowley's mouth and down his throat. Crowley continued to suck the essence out of Aziraphale until the angel twitched and moaned incomprehensibly beneath his hands, overstimulated and half-dizzy with the joy of it all. 

Crowley pulled off him slowly, catching every jerk and tremble with a well-practiced predator’s gaze. His mouth hung open and a shudder jerked up his spine as he breathed in for what felt like the first time, inhaling the scents of musk and sweat and sex as they all coalesced into a heady fog within him.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, “Angel.” The taste of it was sweet on his tongue and he buried his face in the juncture of a soft thigh, nosing against the crease of Aziraphale’s hip.

“Mhmm?” Aziraphale hummed, raising a leaden hand to rest on Crowley’s head, fingers gently twining themselves in shoulder-length red locks. They lay like that, breathing and recovering with each other for some time. They could have spent an eternity in bliss and never have noticed, whether that eternity was just eleven seconds or eleven minutes or only the last eleven years they’d have together.

“My dear,” Aziraphale spoke up first, shuffling himself up on his hands again and reaching down to cradle Crowley’s head in his hands, “My darling boy. You take care of me so well.” Crowley whined at the praise, head still light and floating with the arousal coursing through his veins. Only now, with no outlet or goal to focus on, it was starting to become overwhelming. “Let me take you apart, my dove?” Aziraphale asked, crooning sweetly. And Crowley, who was ever helpless in the face of Aziraphale’s desires, could only say yes.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up to stand before him so that he could relieve the demon of his remaining clothing piece by slow piece. He miracled each article onto the floor across the room with languid snaps of his fingers, and left Crowley naked and exposed in his sight, with only the watch on his wrist to hide behind. 

Aziraphale took that from him too, flayed him raw and open with gentle fingers unbuckling the garish, complicated thing. As he went, he laid solemn kisses along the median nerves in wrists in the dip between bones, cradling them in wide palms and circled with thick fingers. It destroyed the fallen angel as surely as crude iron nailed through them might have. Crowley shook at the implication, at the heresy of it all, until Aziraphale soothed his worries away with his deep, still waters of love, kisses laid in meandering paths up his forearms. 

Even as arousal bubbled up in Crowley it was laid to rest. Somewhere deep inside, he understood exactly what Aziraphale was doing, exactly how his occult form was being marred by these brands of Love. He understood, too, that despite everything they’d said, it was Aziraphale who was changing him forever, who was leaving the marks of his love (Love?) etched so deeply on Crowley's soul that the memory of them might well outlast the world, just as surely as Crowley had left the evidence of his Love scattered across Aziraphale's corporeal body. Those, he knew, were not likely to last so long.

Aziraphale drew Crowley down, to lay beside him on the bed. It felt as cool and welcoming as green pastures, and he was lead with heated hands to cry out Aziraphale’s name as the angel embraced his body He settled himself atop the demon, legs spread over and pressed close against Crowley’s hips, sheathing him in holy-fire heat and blessed waters that gave him life. Crowley’s mind goes blissfully blank and all he can do is sing psalms to his angel. For his cup runneth over and he fears no evil, for an angel of the Lord is by his side, comforting Crowley with his rod and his staff. Who he has feasted upon and now has lead him down paths of righteousness, carrying him when his heels bruise and crack with the Goodness of it all.

Beneath his angel, Crowley sobbed while Aziraphale crooned gentle nonsense. He waited, petting along Crowley’s chest and face until his demon calmed his ragged breaths, before rolling his hips. They both gasped, feeling full and whole and like it had been at the Beginning, before any strife or conflict. Suffused with the love they’d been made of, and made for, permeating outward from their very being. Mingling and changing each other until they couldn’t tell who was meant to be what or who was meant to be where.

They cried out to the heavens, each other’s names on their lips and panted desperate things they’d never say again against each other’s lips. They swallowed the things they couldn’t say, the things they weren’t allowed to say, but kept safe inside themselves as they moved in unison. Crowley filled Aziraphale with their hands wound tight together and they were completed within each other. The breath they draw was ragged but in perfect sync, and their adulation was a tangible force between them.

They ceased to move, save to fall upon the bed and further tangle their corporeal limbs together. Hands stroked idly along vast expanses of vulnerable flesh, over the hills and valleys of skin, each drinking in their fill of the other until they were fit to burst with what lay unspoken between them. 

Hours later they rose, far from sated, and wordless once more. The silence between them now seemed colder, bereft.

Before the angel might reach for them, Crowley took up Aziraphale clothes. He wouldn’t– After this, he could no longer– He could still do this. And so, like in days past, when manservants and valets were necessary, Crowley helped Aziraphale dress once his own clothes were on. These last touches were bittersweet, and all he’d be allowed, as if he was wrapping up a present he’d not be given again. This first time, this one time, this last time. 

So he made the most of it, gently caressing every inch of skin before covering it up, laying sweet kisses over bruises he didn’t heal. He gripped tightly at soft hips and loving arms and strong shoulders before they were lost to him forever. Even if forever was only eleven years, it felt like Falling all over again, the whole of him ripped out of his reach and the Grace of his godhood hidden away. Only this time behind buttons and cotton shirts rather than burning clouds and flaming swords.

“Drink, Angel?” Crowley murmured, willing his voice not to crack. He’d be fine once they were thoroughly soused. 

Probably.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed, and all at once Crowley knew with a sinking dread in his stomach he’d never be able to hear Aziraphale say _yes _like that without thinking of this night. It would ruin him in the best of ways, he knew. “Yes, my dear chap, that sounds lovely.”

Aziraphale’s hand settled like a leaden weight on Crowley’s shoulder before sliding down to his elbow, to gently lead him from the bedroom back to the bookshop below. Upon reaching the bottom step, Crowley conjured his glasses from the end table by the bed and returned them to his face, unwilling to share the vulnerability he knew had to be in his eyes. Not right now, not when everything was so– _Everything_. Aziraphale, to his credit, didn’t follow or fret after him, just paced into the kitchen and brought out two pristine glasses and four bottles of wine. They had quite a bit of drinking to do.

* * *

In London, Soho, an angel and a demon had been drinking solidly for the last six hours in the back room of a bookshop. Bottles of wines and spirits decorated every available surface, along with teetering piles of books and a Regency-era snuff box. Crowley was already much drunker than Aziraphale, which is not to say that the angel was the least bit sober. 

“So what. Exactly. Is. Your. Point?” Aziraphale blustered.

“My point is. My point is. The point I’m trying to make is . . . the dolphins. That’s my point!” Crowley replied, slurring.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Binary Systems](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20622524) by [cassieoh_draws (cassieoh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws)


End file.
